Remember
by reddochu
Summary: Isolating himself within the icy kingdom of Mount Silver, Red eludes nearly everyone and everything... His memories, whether haunting his dreams or drifting behind his eyelids and ringing in his ears, are the only things he cannot escape.


**For a friend. Happy birthday, Korii! (I'm glad I checked the date before midnight, because I almost missed it)**

* * *

There is no time within the realms of Mount Silver, only the eternal falling of snow and the changing colors of the sky that are merely ritual, nothing more. Like the consumption of food and the sinking of one's consciousness into dreams, they just happen, and Red pays them no mind. The mountain is his icy kingdom in the clouds, lying atop the rest of the world and gazing at it through dreamy eyes; his heart is the clockwork, its ceaseless beating being the only semblance of time; his memories, whether haunting his dreams or drifting behind his eyelids and ringing in his ears, are the only things he cannot escape.

They follow him like lonely ghosts, craving for him to let them into his mind, throwing around breathy, broken words to tempt him; more often than not, he succumbs to them, and they consume his entire mind until he, if only for a split second, forgets the world around him. It would have been irritating, had Red not somehow longed for those fragmented memories just as much as he resisted them. Instead, he is simply confused as to why he struggled so.

Perhaps it was because of the thing others called 'loneliness,' but to the man whose most welcoming company was silence, he would have never understood.

.

.

.

"_Red_." The word drifts about in the darkness of his subconscious, and though there is no voice to recognize, there is a tone of warmth to it that the ebony-haired trainer recognizes as his mother's. Color and shape and familiarity flood into that aforementioned darkness, and in no time, what was simple, empty slumber becomes a sepia-tinted dream. Hazel eyes peer down at him, set in a young, gentle face: it is his mother, a pine colored scarf resting on her shoulders and a scarlet one in her hands as she wraps it around him.

"Red," his mother murmurs, lightly placing her hands on Red's shoulders, "Daisy called a little bit ago; it seems Green's been gone all afternoon. She's worried, you know- it's cold out there, and when he left, he didn't have the warmest coat on." Although she smiles at him, it's an apologetic smile, and he knows exactly why. "What I'm saying is Red, honey, can you go and take this scarf to him? You're the only one who knows him well enough to figure out where he's at."

Red, silent as ever, simply nods and accepts the second scarf his mother gives him, then turns away, fishing his gloves out of his pockets. Slipping one on, and then the other, the pitying gaze his mother watches him with goes ignored. The soft feeling of his trademark hat being placed upon his head, though, cannot go unnoticed. Still, though, he does not look back at her as he opens the door and steps into the snow, does not acknowledge the whispered apology that she tells him- because he, with his tense shoulders and tight throat, knows exactly why she said it.

Emotions, however, are far from the child champion's forte; his feet become heavy and unwilling to move, and he takes his time wandering through the snow (but he does not stop). Unskilled as he is with feelings, even he can recognize the dread of confronting a... Friend? Rival? Both? Neither? There was no true title for what they were, nor was there a need for one; they simply existed simultaneously, the need to avoid each other only mostly overpowering the need to know how the other was doing. Now, though, with the whispers of 'the five minute champion' (and worse, the boy who defeated him) spilling from the lips of every person in Kanto, Red was as encompassed with quiet worry as he was with snow. For someone as prideful as Green, he would see himself as the laughingstock of the entire region and, if only for a little while, wish he could forget it all.

And Red knows exactly where his childhood friend would go to lose himself.

Like an esper, the young champion vanishes from the small, snowy town and into the woods; old paths followed long ago by children far too adventurous for their own good, and followed now by a boy who remembered such fondly. Through every twist and turn, he wandered along without a single worry of going astray, and just when the path of his memories came to an end, the wooden shack that was his childhood's 'secret base' rose into view.

There, just as he had expected, was Green, leaning against the porch railing and staring up at the darkening sky. Floorboards creaked as Red crossed them, making no effort to keep his presence unknown- but whether the owner of that quietly shivering back did or did not notice, he did not turn to face him. That is, until thin, gloved hands lightly draped the pine-colored scarf over Green's shoulders; immediately, the brunet straightened up and jerked back, staring at Red with narrowed, fierce eyes. Disdain paints itself all over his face, but though his jaw is tense with dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of words that are ready to spill forth from his lips, all he manages is a scowl. Tense as the silence is, it does not last for long, and six venomous words fill the air around them: "I don't want to see you."

Red is fully aware of that fact, but his face remains neutral- irritatingly so, to the brunet boy who wants so badly to see him feel like he does. "Go away," Green mutters, smacking away one of Red's hands, rejecting the scarf being given to him. "It's your fault, you know. It's all your fault." But still, the child champion is silent, tranquil crimson clashing quietly against violent emerald- and like their last battle, Green is the loser, averting his gaze with an irritated click of his tongue. "I hate you, you know. I hate you." Gloved hands, careful hands, simply try again to lay the scarf across Green's shoulders, their owner nodding wordlessly. Slowly drawing in a breath, he wrapped the scarf around his childhood friend and then stepped back.

"You're cold," he murmurs, voice nearly swallowed up by the whispering wind around them, and then with that, turns and meanders back the way he came.

"You're an idiot," comes the soft voice behind him, wavering slightly as the pale boy begins to disappear from Green's sight; Red pauses once, nods, and vanishes behind the trees.

When Red arrives home, his mother is out shopping and there is a warm mug of hot chocolate on the table, along with a small note that just says 'thank you.' He accepts both, the note going into his pocket and the mug into his hands, then calmly goes out onto his porch; seated at the small table by the window, he watches the endless snowfall until his eyelids are heavy, the mug is on the tabletop, and his head is resting in his arms.

He wakes to a starry night sky and snowflakes that catch the light of the streetlamps as they fall to the ground, and when he sits up, there is a strange weight around his neck. In the fuzziness of waking up, he wonders if it's his pikachu; upon touching it, though, he feels the soft fabric of a scarf, and breathes in.

It smells faintly of cinnamon.

.

.

.

When the Red of the present wakes, crimson eyes fluttering open and bony hands reaching for a scarf that isn't there, he feels chilled despite leaning against his orange drake of a companion. Slowly, he stands up and diverts his gaze to the weather outside of his cave, finding that it's one of those rare days of calm weather, snow falling gently and wind whirling around quietly- and for some reason, the phantom champion feels the need to walk, right down to the bottom of the mountain. Well, it's not like it was a bad idea; supplies were getting low anyways, especially considering that he has a snorlax to feed. His pikachu seems to understand what he's thinking, and leaps onto his shoulder, carrying a pine-colored scarf with him. With a grateful scratch behind the ears for the rodent, Red wraps it around his neck and sets off into the snow.

Burying his face in the worn fabric, he silently laments that it smells like winter.


End file.
